Page 83 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

Peterson:Ten bucks says he chickens out of kissing her.

Rodriguez:Twenty says she jumps him in the library stacks.

I roll my eyes and type a quick response.

Sanderson:You're all idiots and I'm muting this chat.

Miller:He's not denying it.

I do mute the chat, shoving my phone in my pocket with a laugh. My teammates are ridiculous, juvenile, and completely lacking in relationship wisdom.

But they care, in their own weird way. And somehow, despite their terrible advice and constant ribbing, I feel better knowing they've got my back.

Now I just need to figure out what to wear to deliver a caramel macchiato to the most intriguing, complicated, beautiful girl I've ever met.

No pressure.

Chapter 23

"Name three ethical frameworks commonly applied to genetic testing," Ethan asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear him.

We're tucked in the corner of study room 302, surrounded by stacks of notes, empty water bottles, and the nearly tangible stress of impending finals. Four other students from our Bio Ethics class are scattered around the table—Madison and Kelly huddled over a shared textbook, whispering intently, while Jason and Parker tap away on their laptops, occasionally sharing a relevant article they've found.

I close my eyes, organizing my thoughts. "Utilitarianism, focused on maximizing overall benefits and minimizing harm. Virtue ethics, centered on the character and intentions of those administering tests. And autonomy-based ethics, which prioritizes patient choice and consent."

Ethan nods, leaning closer to check my notes. His shoulder brushes mine, and I instinctively shift away, maintaining my personal space. If he notices, he doesn't comment.

"Good," he says, flipping to the next page of his notes. "Now what about—"

The door to the study room opens, and my heart jumps to my throat.

Sanderson walks through the doorway, a coffee cup in each hand, scanning the room until his eyes find mine. He's in dark jeans replacing his usual athletic shorts, a navy button-down rolled to the elbows instead of a team t-shirt. His hair is still damp from a shower, and the bruise around his eye has faded to a yellowish shadow.

The entire room seems to pause, all eyes turning toward this unfamiliar intrusion. I'm suddenly acutely aware of how close Ethan is sitting, how my notes are mixed with his, how anyone watching might assume we're more than just study partners.

Sanderson's gaze flicks to Ethan, then back to me, his expression carefully neutral. But I've spent enough time with him now to recognize the tightness around his mouth, the slight narrowing of his eyes. He's not pleased.

"What's the next question?" I prompt Ethan, pretending not to notice the tension crackling in the air.

Ethan, oblivious to the undercurrents, consults his notes again. "Explain the concept of genetic determinism and its ethical implications."

Sanderson approaches silently, setting a coffee cup in front of me with deliberate care. The familiar aroma of caramel and espresso wafts up, a perfect caramel macchiato with an extra shot, exactly as I requested. Our fingers brush as I accept it, and a jolt of electricity races up my arm.

"Genetic determinism is the belief that human traits and behaviors are controlled solely by genetic factors," I begin, holding Sanderson's gaze even as I answer Ethan's question. "Ethically, it's problematic because it can lead to fatalism—the idea that our futures are predetermined by our genes, which undermines concepts of free will and personal responsibility."

Sanderson's lips quirk up slightly, impressed or amused, I can't tell which. He remains standing beside me, his presence a warm, distracting force.

"It can also lead to discrimination," I continue, somehow maintaining my train of thought despite the way my pulse is racing. "If we believe someone's worth or potential is dictated entirely by their genetic makeup, it opens the door to eugenics and other harmful practices."

"Good," Ethan says, making a note in his margin. He glances up, finally acknowledging Sanderson's presence.

"Thanks for the coffee, Sanderson," I say.

Sanderson nods once, his eyes never leaving mine. "Anytime."

There's a wealth of meaning in that single word, layers that only I understand. He gives me one last look—intense, possessive, promising—then turns and walks out, closing the door quietly behind him.

The room seems to exhale collectively once he's gone, conversations resuming, pages turning. But I remain frozen, coffee warming my palms, heart hammering in my chest.

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